


Broken Rules

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alcohol, Angst, Biting, Dysfunctional Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Touching, Possessive Behavior, Power Play, Rough Sex, Secret Relationship, Smut, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:31:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn has had enough of being treated as a fragile bauble. Fortunately, Grima does not see her as such - and 'look, don’t touch,' is not a command he plans to honor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Prompted by GeekHyena of tumblr: Sex that accidentally breaks furniture.
> 
> Dark!Grima/Eowyn, so be warned. There is much angst and emotional manipulation ahead.

Once, when Éowyn was a child, she roughhoused with her brother and cousin as if it were nothing – took their fists to her jaw, scraped her knuckles on their teeth.

Once they held her hands when they walked down the street, carried her on their shoulders, held her through unpleasant dreams.

Once the guards would watch them at play and laugh, patting her on the head, brushing back her hair, lifting her from the ground for hugs.

But Éowyn is not a child anymore; and the slight touches that were once her daily joy have ceased. It is not for men to lay hands upon a lady so beautiful and delicate; not for them to suggest with the brush of fingers and unwary touch of the hand that their desires are anything but chaste.

For Éowyn this is the greatest of losses. She has always thrived on touch, on hands linked with hers and firm grips upon her shoulders. She misses the feel of her hair tucked gently back behind her ear; misses the taste of a fist against her tongue.

Whole weeks will pass for Éowyn without a single touch. She stands behind her uncle’s throne, alert and proud, a cold figure all alone. The world has deemed her untouchable and so she shall become – but sometimes her tongue remembers the taste of flesh, and a fierce longing grips her for just one more touch, one more chance to be held.

It is a weakness she despises in herself; and it is a weakness that Gríma called Wormtongue responds to as clearly as if he can read it in her eyes – as if her wanting is his own.

When Gríma comes first to Edoras, Éowyn dismisses him at once as just another man - a man who sees her as only a woman, as a fragile bauble who break as soon as she is handled. For a time, they ignore one another as best they may. They are rigid and cold in one another’s presence, speaking in formalities – if they ever speak at all.

It is not long before Gríma’s eyes begin to linger, warm as a longed-for caress upon her skin. At first it hardly troubles her. Men have been known to stare when they think she cannot see. Her uncle tells her that this must come as no surprise, for she is beautiful and desirable, and men look to her with hope for their futures – hope that they will one day possess someone as beautiful as she. Gríma, she thinks, must surely be the same.

Yet when his gaze goes unchallenged, it begins to linger far beyond the limits of decency and propriety. When she feels his eyes upon her back, Éowyn takes to turning, casting him a withering glare. That, she thinks, will teach him a firm lesson.

But he does not wither beneath her eyes. Instead, he merely smiles. His smile is the placid thin-lipped smirk of a snake, resting in the rushes, biding its time. They do not name him a serpent for nothing.

Éowyn, for her part, has never been known to leave a challenge unmet; and this is most certainly a challenge of the highest order. So in her turn she takes to staring, watching his movements with the sharp gaze of a hawk. She stares him down boldly, straying beyond the laws of restraint that should be her captor.

It is the first rule they break together, but it will hardly be the last.

*

The second rule he breaks is the rule of touch.

His presence has become a constant itch upon her skin, one she feels as soon as he is near, like breath upon the back of her neck. She would know the feeling anywhere.

Anywhere that day is a corridor, deserted but for herself. In her hand is a knife – her brother’s, one long left in disuse upon his wall. Éowyn has gained much skill with swords, but knives are yet a mystery to her. She has hoped for a knife as a gift for many long years, but she receives instead a series of pretty jewels and perfumes and gowns, things she likes but does not need or wish for. Lacking what she desires, she, sweet child of Rohan, opts to take it.

Gríma, it seems, means to do the same.

Éowyn feels the familiar prickle of his eyes upon her back, and turns to face him at once, slipping the dagger up her sleeve before he catches sight of it. They are alone this time, standing in a corridor. Valar know how long he has been standing there. He blends so well with shadows, a dark form in a greater darkness. “Counsellor,” she says. They have never been together like this, just he and she in the shadowy hall. The knowledge does not alarm her as it should; there is a certain thrill to this new turn, and she revels in it. “Do you make a habit of lurking in doorways, or is this practice a new one?”

“There is much to be learned by lurking in doorways,” he replies, his voice buttery and warm. It ripples over her skin like silk. “Perhaps you should make a practice of it yourself.”

“You sorely doubt my usefulness and burden of duties, my lord, if you believe I have the time and inclination to sit and wait where no man would think to pass,” Éowyn says, eyes narrowing. “I should think you would have much more important tasks to attend to, as counsellor to the King.”

He unfolds himself from the darkness, brushing his cloak aside as one might swat a fly. “Your uncle requires eyes and ears in all places,” he says, tilting his head to the right. “I consider it my duty to be those eyes and ears, as much as I am permitted to do so.” His eyes are unblinking, the sort of cold blue that could freeze lesser men in their tracks. But Éowyn is no lesser man, and she meets his gaze brashly, every inch a warrior.

“Your diligence is certainly admirable,” she says, her voice dripping with mocking. “It would appear that you leave no empty guest chamber unguarded. No doubt you have seen and heard a hundred useful things from such a vantage point.”

If her sarcasm offends him, he does not let on. “Oh, certainly,” he replies, stepping boldly towards her. Only now does a sense of unease begin to stir in her – a sense that something is not quite as it should be. “I have seen you tucking your brother’s dagger up your sleeve, for a start. No doubt your uncle would be fascinated to learn what use you mean to make of that, should I choose to divulge such a secret.”

Éowyn’s blood runs cold. The game has stopped. They are playing at something entirely different now, a game she no longer understands. “Gríma – ”

He smiles, pleased to hear his name upon her lips. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he says, before she can even begin to protest. “Your secret is safe with me. The king has far weightier matters about which to worry; and the day may come when Rohan will be glad of your skill with a blade.” His smile fades, and heat rises in his eyes. “Regardless, my lady, I would never wish to deny you anything that brings you joy. You are granted little enough of it, lord knows.”

The words are spoken with far greater familiarity than he should dare express, but the warmth in his tone is genuine, and the truth of his words swallows any protest Éowyn might think to raise. “You are kind to say so, my lord,” she says.

He smiles. There is no kindness in that smile – it is sharp and ravenous, a snake about to strike. “I much preferred it when you said my name,” he replies. His voice is soft and dangerous. It carries a note she does not recognize. It sounds like hunger and feels like need.

She likes the way it feels when she shivers in response.

A small smile dances at the corner of her lips. “My lord?” she says, pretending ignorance, all childish defiance and impish glee.

Gríma takes the words as a challenge, another gate he must unlock. He takes another step forward, closing the space between them. He is close enough to touch. Éowyn thinks abruptly of hands upon her skin, the warmth of flesh against flesh, and colors. She thinks she understands the need in his voice now, and the reflecting need sending heat pulsing through her blood alarms her – yet, stubbornly, she will not step back. She knows the rules of engagement. To step back is to give ground; and she is, after all, a warrior of Rohan. She will not be made to retreat.

His eyes trace her lips, and for an instant she thinks he means to kiss her; but though the desire is plain to see, he resists, raising a hand to her face and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, smoothing his thumb over the arc of her cheekbone as he withdraws. The touch is so light it might be considered unintentional, if not for the intensity of his stare. She gasps beneath his hand, her skin on fire where his flesh brushes hers.

“Your hair has come loose of its plait, Éowyn,” he says. The deliberate use of her given name makes her stiffen. He is goading her, daring her to return the familiarity of the gesture, daring her to deny it to him. “You may wish to have a servant fix it before supper.”

She means to rise to the challenge, but finds she cannot. Her cheek tingles where his fingers rested, and her blood is roaring in her ears. “I – thank you, my lord,” she says, stepping back – the first time she gives way to him. “I shall return to my quarters at once to do so.”

She whirls and starts down the corridor, her shoes slapping against the stone floor, drowning out Gríma’s small cry of protest. Even had she paused to listen, she would not have turned around. She fears her own reaction should she stay a moment longer.

It has been such a long time since she has been touched like that.

*

Gríma does not cease to stare, but his eyes linger now without a smile to accompany them. She does not dare challenge him any longer, fearing his response; and whenever possible, she avoids him, fearing his hands, fearing his voice, fearing the rush in her blood and the heat bubbling beneath her skin.

He takes to touching her when she passes by him in whatever manner might be excusable. Once he catches her as she makes to pass his counsellor’s chair, fingers encircling her wrist, pulling her lightly back to him. His thumb strokes over her pulse, feeling it race at the touch of his fingers. “A thousand pardons, my lady,” he says, thumb circling gently, caressing the bones of her wrist. Éowyn swallows a small cry, cursing the blush in her cheeks. “But your uncle wishes to see you this evening, when you have finished with your duties for the day. If you would be so good as to call upon him…”

She extricates her hand, folding it behind her back where he cannot reach it. “Thank you, counsellor,” she says, keeping her voice cool. “I will be glad to speak with him.” Then she departs, hardly daring to meet his eyes. He both frightens and allures her, and her confusion only makes her troubled thoughts the worse.

Another day, passing each other in a corridor, he brushes against her, so softly that it might have been an accident. “Your pardon, Lady Éowyn,” he murmurs, bowing, as he always does, a touch too deeply. “I find myself much distracted today.”

“That is much apparent, counsellor,” Éowyn snaps, heat rising to her face. “Perhaps you might consider focusing more closely on where you step and less on whatever political matter so usurps your attention. You are not in court, and the matter can surely wait until you are sitting down.”

Anger flares in his eyes, the muscles of his jaw tightening. Almost unthinking, he steps towards her and slams both hands on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. Éowyn gasps, the heat of him pressing and real through her dress. “Gríma – !” she protests, her voice cracking around his name.

It was unwise to use his name. Anger becomes desire in the space of a heartbeat. He leans in, face inches from hers, and Éowyn struggles to stay still, breath catching in her throat.

His voice is ragged when he finally speaks. “My princess must learn how to accept an apology more gracefully,” he says; and with that, he steps back in a flurry of black velvet, bowing mockingly and storming away, fists clenched at his sides.

There is an ache in her skin where he might have touched her, screaming with its need for the feel of his hand.

*

It is Éowyn who breaks the third rule, perhaps unintentionally. So she will claim when her maids question her, when forced to question herself.

It is a rare day wherein the entire royal family has gone into the market of Edoras, to visit with the people and purchase some trinkets. Théoden is busy with a carpenter and his children, smiling warmly at the little girls all gathered at his feet. Éomer is admiring some armor at a blacksmith’s shop. Théodred is tasting the wares of a pretty girl selling bread, dazzling her with a charming smile.

Éowyn has been herded to a seamstress, to be fitted for new gowns. According to her handmaids, her current collection is beginning to look tattered. “You are too hard on your gowns, my lady,” one of them chides. “You must be gentler on your clothes. Such a series of tattered hems and torn sleeves I have never seen before!”

So Éowyn stands, bored and annoyed, in the center of the seamstress’s shop, wearing only a thin shift and pursed lips. Her hair has been haphazardly braided and tucked until it rises off her neck, to keep it out of the way.

Fabric after fabric is paraded in front of her, laid across her body. A few her handmaiden picks despite Éowyn’s protestations; the rest, Éowyn chooses herself.

She is being draped in green velvet when she hears the sound of Gríma’s voice, panicked and desperate. Éowyn cannot catch the words, but he is pleading with someone, his voice rising almost to a whine.

If the handmaid or seamstress hear, they make no effort to go to his aid. But for her part, almost without thinking, Éowyn throws aside the velvet and runs from the shop, bare but for her shift.

She rounds the corner and spots Gríma pressed against the wall, a thief holding a knife to his throat. The dagger Éowyn keeps strapped at her calf is in her hand before she can think, her legs carrying her to the ragged man and her hands leaping to place the dagger at his throat. “Drop it,” she commands, her voice brooking no refusal.

The man swallows, lowering his knife. Gríma sags against the wall, pale as death.

When the beggar catches sight of her, he almost laughs. Snarling, he takes his knife and swings it at her stomach. Éowyn leaps back with a tiny cry, her dagger scraping along the thief’s neck. The first cut is not deep enough to kill; but when he aims to strike at her again, she darts away from his swing and slashes at his side, hard, ripping open shirt and skin alike. Startled, he drops the knife in his hand, clutching at his bleeding side; wisely, he opts to run instead of staying to face her.

Éowyn’s fingers are wet with blood, a small cut blossoming on her arm; but she hardly notices the pain. She turns to Gríma, frowning. “Are you hurt, counsellor?” she asks, approaching him and laying a cool hand upon his cheek. “Did he cut you anywhere?”

Gríma does not speak, does not think. His fingers curl around her bare arms and pull her tight against him, his mouth closing over hers in a violent, desperate kiss of thanks.

Éowyn’s blood is beating vicious and strong within her veins. Her first reaction, animal in nature, is to respond, her arms around his neck, snarling into his mouth. He snarls back, catching her hair and tugging, arm snaking around her waist to hold her against him.

Wildly, Éowyn realizes they could fuck right here, wildcats rutting desperately in the open air. It is apparent that the same thought has crossed Gríma’s mind. His hand strays dangerously from her hip to her thigh, fingers crushing the thin fabric of her shift as if to tear it free of her. “Éowyn,” he pants against her mouth, hardly breaking the kiss to speak. “My warrior, my lady…”

The title draws her abruptly from her fit of wildness. Gasping, she tears her mouth from his, stumbling free of his arms. Her lips feels bruised with the force of his kiss, and she can feel his fingers like burn marks on her thigh.

They regard each other warily for a moment, Gríma still pressed to the wall, Éowyn tense and poised to strike. Then, Gríma pushes himself free, brushing himself off as if nothing has happened. “Well, my princess,” he says, forcing a thin smile. “It appears you have saved my life, at what might have been great cost to your person. I am most grateful.” He undoes his heavy cloak, and for a moment, Éowyn thinks he means to continue where they had stopped; but he merely slides the cloak off and holds it out to her. “We should not wander the streets with you nearly naked, my lady,” he says.

Suddenly Éowyn remembers her state of undress. Blushing, she takes the cloak from him, brushing her fingers across his – intentionally? She does not know her own mind in this moment. Her blood is boiling, and her mouth aches. _Kiss me again?_ “Thank you, Gríma,” she says, taking the cloak from him with some effort. She ducks her head to hide her blush, but he sees it all the same, gaze prickling hotly along the lines of her cheekbone.

He reaches out and pulls her to him, gently, laying an arm around her waist. The gesture is intimate, inappropriate, but he pulls her along before she can protest, back to the seamstress’s shop, where her handmaid and the seamstress are waiting, mouths open.

Her handmaiden wrenches her from Gríma’s arms as if he means to kill her, glaring at him in affront. “Out,” she orders, gesturing angrily to the door. “The lady may have forgotten herself, but you, my lord, should know better.”

His pale, mismatched eyes narrow, dangerous, cold. “And what is it precisely that I should know?” he asks. “Should I, perhaps, have kept my cloak and let Éowyn return to you unguarded and undressed? Would that have pleased you better?”

The handmaiden flounders, mouth opening and closing like a fish’s; but she has no response. Éowyn hugs the cloak about her, biting at her lip. The very feel of it speaks of luxury and power; it smooths itself across her skin like his hands might, swallowing her almost completely. Everything about him, Éowyn thinks, smacks of sorcery – sorcery that appears to be working, even on her.

Perhaps especially on her.

It is clear the servant cannot formulate a response. “As I thought,” Gríma says, dismissing the servant with a sharp turn of his head. All his focus is upon Éowyn once more, hungry, wanting. “I thank you again, my lady, for my life,” he tells her, bowing with a sincerity quite foreign to his nature. “I am in your debt.”

Éowyn raises her eyes, speaking before she can think about what it is she says. “How fortunate am I, to be owed a favor by a man such as you. There is much that you might do to repay me. I shall not forget it.”

There is nothing chaste or humble in his smile when he looks into her eyes. “Nor, sweet lady, shall I.”

*

When Éowyn returns to Edoras, gowns commissioned and other purchases in tow, all her weapons are gone.

Rumor, it seems has traveled fast; and all now know of Éowyn’s mad dash to rescue the errant counsellor from the hands of a wayward thief. As is the nature of rumor, the story has grown as it is told and retold, such that it is no longer in any way true. It is being said among servants and soldiers and craftsmen alike that the Wormtongue arranged the whole matter as an excuse to put himself in Éowyn’s favor; that Éowyn wore not a stitch at the time of the attack; that the thief meant no harm at all. That there was no thief – only Éowyn and Gríma and an empty alley, and she emerging swathed within his cloak, bare feet and legs peering out like criminals from beneath the blackened velvet.

Conclusions, it seems, have been drawn.

Théoden King does not like these conclusions – nor do Théodred and Éomer. And while they may claim they do not believe the lies, they punish Éowyn all the same.

Her sentence proclaimed, Éowyn is dealt her final humiliation: to be followed by a small army of nurses, handmaidens, and courtiers at all times, all with wary eyes turned towards her, to prevent any further missteps. She will be made an icon of chastity, a bastion of propriety – a pretty bauble who bears the warning: Look, but do not dare to touch.

The counsellor, though, does not seem to think that such warnings apply to him. Despite the rumors, despite the innumerable protectors of her chastity, despite a vicious tongue-lashing from the king himself, he finds a way to lay his hands on her again.

It is the fourth rule that they break together, the pinnacle of all others. For once one rule is broken, what is to stop the others from falling in their turn?

*

Gríma comes, he claims, for his cloak.

It is a fortnight after the now-infamous rescue. Éowyn has only her nights to call her own, and those are filled with dreams of him, his mouth and fingers and the way he gasped her name; what it felt like to be handled, as if she is a thing of substance and not a creature spun of sugar and silk.

Feverish, tormented, she wakes restless and angry, and sits at court in sullen silence, blaming him for her misery.

He himself is mostly shunned now, more so than before – a leper among kings. He pretends it does not trouble him, but when she dares to glance his way, his shoulders are stiff and his eyes full of fury, his fingers curled into eternal fists.

There is a feast to celebrate the birth of the House of Eorl, so many years ago. There are solemn speeches and rousing songs, and meat and drink for all. Due to her recent indiscretion, Éowyn is told she may not dance, save with other ladies; but she has kept their company for many long days, and does not wish to indulge it more. She drinks instead, far more than she should. Mead fans her anger until it is a hot flame in her belly, threatening to consume her. Waving away help, she stumbles back to her chambers, barring the door behind her as her uncle has commanded.

She has stripped out of her gown, left in a simple shift, when there comes a knock on the door.

Thinking it is her brother, or a handmaiden come to make certain she is alone, she lifts the bar and throws open the door, a curse upon her lips.

But it is not a handmaiden, nor is it her brother, nor any so respectable person.

Gríma has been drinking too. She has never seen him drunk before, but she can see in his face that he no longer has much control of himself. When he is sober his posture speaks of highly disciplined restraint – a man who will not relinquish the tight hold he has upon his anger. But there is not an ounce of that restraint in him now. Boldly, his eyes rake over her body, taking her in openly, as he surely had not dared to do when they were in the streets. “Why, princess, are we to make a habit of your nakedness?” he says. “The people will talk, you know.”

Éowyn whirls on her heel and strides back into her room, daring him to follow her inside. “So it would seem,” she says, taking her hair in her hands and tugging it over her shoulder, meaning to make a braid. She pauses, glancing over the bundle of hair to him. “Well, counsellor, what may the tarnished princess do for you? I hope you don’t expect me to behave as the rumors suggest I did. If you came here to be ravished, you shall be sorely disappointed.”

He laughs, higher pitched than she might have expected. She realizes she has never really heard him laugh til now. It is, she thinks, a pity. “Is it you who does the ravishing, my lady?” he says, stepping into the room and pulling the door shut. “I had thought such a task would be mine and mine alone.”

“Why?” Éowyn asks scornfully, dropping into a chair. “Because you happen to possess a cock? A woman may wield a man’s weapons just as well, if not better than he.”

Gríma chuckles, settling against one of the posts of her bed. “We are not speaking of swords, sweet lady,” he says. “Cocks and swords serve a rather different purpose.”

“I wish I had your certainty,” Éowyn says, grabbing for a comb and beginning to run it through her hair. Her voice is bitter even to her own ears. “Men make a habit of using both to terrify women.”

Gríma shrugs, conceding the point. “And yet,” he says, leaning a little closer, “You seem to be afraid of neither.”

Éowyn casts him a glance, unconsciously coy. “Both may be turned against their masters, if one knows how to wield them properly,” she says. “You need not fear what you may bend to serve your will.”

Gríma’s smile widens, cat-like. “Does my sweet and noble lady speak from experience? Or are you, as I suspect, merely hazarding a guess?”

Éowyn turns back to her comb, coloring. “It is only a theory.”

“Hmm.” He makes a small noise in the back of his throat, almost a purr, and steps forward, tapping long, pale fingers along the polished wood of the second column of her bed. “You might have tested such a theory, if you wished, in that alley.”

“I might test my fist against your face, too, if I wished,” Éowyn retorts, with less malice than she intends. “But I suppose you would like that less.”

Gríma licks his lips, ever the serpent. “I have made a habit of appreciating pain.”

Éowyn glances towards him again, lips parting just a little. This she has never considered – that he might wish for the pain she can cause him, that he might even enjoy it. No one has ever spoken to her of these things.

Almost of an accord not her own, she rises all at once and comes to stand barely a few inches from him, staring large-eyed into his face. “What is it like?” she asks, her voice wavering. “Wanting pain…”

He catches her hips with one arm and drags her to him, closing the distance between them. “Let me show you,” he says, and darts forward to nip at her neck, in the soft place just below her ear.

Éowyn gasps. His teeth are both pain and pleasure, dragged along her skin, leaving marks in her pale flesh. She hisses and jerks away, returning the bite with a beastly growl, an animal possessed. The first taste of his salty skin, coupled with his sudden cry of pleasure, makes something within her snap; and in that instant she is truly gone, lost to whatever dark pleasures he means to show her.

His fingers rake an angry path down her back, tearing into her shift. Lines of fire are left in his wake, pulsing under her skin long after his fingers are gone. Again she imitates, dragging fingers down his side. He moans, heedless of passing servants and any who might hear him, and clutches her the tighter, taking hold of the start of her braid and tugging her head back to expose her throat.

As he sucks and bites a path down to her collarbone, Éowyn thinks that this, yes, this is how she has always wanted it: to be handled and roughhoused and battled with, not left to stand upon a pedestal like a cold statue. She wants his teeth and his fists and the way he snarls into her ear when she fights back, a warning that he is not afraid to fight her in return. Baring her teeth, she wrenches her hair free of him and pushes, hard, sending him stumbling back onto her bed. A smile dances at the curve of her lips, as predatory and hungry as his always seems to be. “My lord,” she says, looming above him, just within reach of his hands.

His smirk is vicious. “Oh, no,” he hisses, catching her hips and dragging her into his lap. “Titles will not do here, my lovely. If you mean to grant me what I wish, you will say my name. Scream it, even.”

She laughs, pressing hands to his shoulders and pressing a kiss to his lips, a kiss that is almost a bite. “Make me,” she replies, mouth lingering over his.

“Oh, I intend to,” he says, the words ragged and hoarse; and then, with a snarl, he takes hold of her and flips her onto her back, with a raw strength for which Éowyn has never thought to credit him.

His hands – the very heat of him – sets a heavy haze in Éowyn’s head. She thinks she most likely ought to protest, or flee, but every animal sense within her body is demanding that she stay and fight and fuck. Like a wild dog she growls and darts up to press sharp teeth into the tender flesh of Gríma’s neck, just below his ear. He snarls again, freeing one of her arms to take hold of her chin, forcing her to face him. His mouth meets hers in a violent clash, while he arches above her, his other arm taking hold of her thigh and pulling her up to him, as if by sheer force of will he might enter her.

In this moment he is unstable again. She catches him off-balance and shoves, knocking him from the bed. He stumbles, catches himself, pulls himself to his feet. Want and fury are waging war in the depths of his eyes – and is that exhilaration on his features? How long has he dreamed of this, Éowyn wonders; dreamed of how her blood might taste, and what sounds she might make in response to his tongue...

He darts forward and catches her arms, dragging her free of her soft furs. He turns and slams her against the wall, kicking a small table out of the way. It falls to the floor with an unpleasant crash, one Éowyn suspects indicates the poor thing is broken.

“Is this how you would have it, lovely?” he growls, hands pinning her on either side of her body. “Free of furs and silks, with only the wall to hold you? Such seems befitting of a warrior, I suppose.”

Éowyn catches the necklace at his throat, tugging hard. She catches his lips with hers, catching his lower lip with her teeth. “You talk too much,” she says, when at last she breaks free. “And you did not come here for talk.”

“No,” Gríma agrees, catching her shift and wrenching its thin sleeve free of her shoulder, exposing white, slightly freckled skin. “I came here for my cloak. But I will happily take you instead.”

Éowyn makes an indignant sound and ducks beneath his arm, nearly escaping him. But his hand flies out and catches on her shift; and when he tugs her back, it rips, a flimsy pale thing turned to rags in mere moments.

A wild light comes into his eyes at the exposure of her back; and when she makes to escape again, he catches her and pushes her back to the bed. She crashes atop it on hands and knees, heart pounding wildly against her ribcage. She squeaks and makes to crawl away, but Gríma has hold of her already, grabbing for the flimsy shift and tearing, tearing until it comes apart. He catches her around her bared waist and pulls her back onto his lap, sucking at her shoulder as he rips the shift away. “Éowyn,” he hisses, pressing his lips to her ear. “Oh, Éowyn…”

She turns her face to catch his mouth with hers. Distracted again by the kiss, his grip on her loosens. Momentarily freed, she tears her mouth from his and slips away, just out of reach of his hands. Her eyes dare him to follow, dare him to chase. _Catch me if you can._

Growling deep in the back of his throat, he lunges for her – but to no avail. She is on her feet in moments, slipping away with a grin and a laugh. Gríma growls again and follows, leaping to his feet and moving to corner her; but just as he makes to catch her, she grabs hold of his shirt and spins him, slamming him into the wall. At the force of impact he gasps, almost moving to escape; but Éowyn presses him back, mouth against his, sucking at his lower lip. With the ungainly exuberance of a first-timer, she tears at his tunic, snapping off buttons to get it free of him. It slides off one shoulder, then another, falling to the floor in a heap. His shirt he shrugs off of his own will, tugging it over his head and casting it aside.

Éowyn takes a moment to step back and look at him. He is neither comely nor fit, his body pale in the light of her candles. She imagines what the angry marks her teeth might leave will look like, peppered across that skin. She bares her teeth again, a fierce, possessive noise reverberating in her throat, and darts forward, sucking and biting her way from his collarbone to his chest, smirking when he cries out at the touch of teeth to a nipple. He slams a fist into the wall, hips jerking violently forward as her tongue dances over him, turning the nipple to a hard peak in her mouth. He makes an inarticulate sound, half gasp, half moan, followed with a vicious series of curses when she drops lower, running her tongue over his stomach down the waist of his breeches. She bites along the arc of his hip-bone, grinning when he cries out.

Her hand briefly toys with the laces of his breeches before she pulls away, settling on her knees and tearing the laces open. She has never seen this part of a man before, and curiosity overwhelms sensation for the moment. He swallows when she frees him of his breeches, shuddering when her fingers trace the length of him, hot and hard and twitching against her palm. She closes a hand around him experimentally and strokes, just once, before he gasps and pushes her away. “No,” he barks, eyes wide and dark. “No, not yet… I can’t – ”

He turns a dark shade of red. Shaking away whatever it was he’d meant to say, he drops to his knees and pushes her onto the floor before she can protest. He presses a mouth to her nipple this time, his tongue swirling. When he sucks, she moans for the first time, heat pooling between her thighs. She arches up from the floor to meet his mouth, whimpering when he bites down lightly. “Grim – ” She chokes on his name, unable to spit out the final syllable.

She feels him smile against her breast. As if to reward her, he slides his fingers between her legs, slipping one long finger inside her. She tightens around him at once, crying out sharply into the darkness of her room. She has not known true torment until this moment, until the warmth of his hand against her most intimate flesh. She rocks towards his fingers, desperate for more. A tremor rocks her body as he moves inside her, exploring her, stroking and thrusting until he finds a spot that makes her scream for him.

He runs a finger over an especially tender spot somewhere deep inside her, and fire leaps from nerve to nerve. She arches at once, thighs trembling on either side of him. Her fingers search desperately for something to grip, catching hold of a bedside table and clutching at the delicately carved edge, tangling her fingers in its polished filigree. Stone bites into her back, hard, but she doesn't care. “No, there, please – ” she begs, until he finds the spot again. “Lord, yes, right there – yes –!”

Her legs are trembling wildly, her fingers tightening on the tiny, fragile wood carving. For a moment it supports her weight, her shaking hands, before it snaps against her fingers, splintering under her grip. She squeaks in alarm and jerks away, drawn suddenly out of her own pleasure.

Gríma jumps, startled for an instant; but, seeing the damage she has inflicted, he bursts into laughter, a bright laugh that sends him collapsing against the bed frame, shoulders shaking. He presses a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound, laughing too hard to look at her.

“Don’t you dare – ” she exclaims indignantly, clambering on top of him and dragging his hand away from his mouth. “Don’t you dare laugh at me – !”

He tries to stifle another laugh, biting down hard on his lip – but his eyes are bright with his amusement, and no amount of lip-biting can hide his smile.

Éowyn opts to capture it with her mouth; and that, it seems, is enough to distract him. In moments he is a beast again, snarling and kissing her as if there has been no interruption. She slides against him, finding him just as hard as before; and she wonders what it would be like to ride him like this, as if he is a fine steed waiting solely for her pleasure. It occurs to her very suddenly that she has no concept of what she’s doing. Can women even ride men that way? How does it work? Will he fit inside her as perfectly as his fingers, or will it hurt? They call her a woman, but they have never bothered to tell her what it is like to be made into one. Her chastity is too important.

Anger overrides her fear – anger at the traditions that bind her, the laws by which she must abide. Well, she and Gríma have broken all the rules – why not this one, too?

She climbs off of him, breaking her lips from his, and lays back on the floor, parting her legs just enough to be an invitation. She bites her lip and turns a pretty shade of pink, hardly daring to look at him.

There is no need for her worry. Gríma is between her legs in an instant, gently settling her against the floor. “You do have a bed,” he says, grinning. “You may perhaps be more comfortable there…

Éowyn shakes her head vehemently. “No,” she says. “I did not ask for comfort.”

His smile softens. “As you wish.” He bends to kiss her, tender in comparison to his prior kisses. One arm circles around her hips and raises her up to meet him; and slowly, inch by inch, he slips inside her, pausing when she cries out, withdrawing and re-entering, as if she is a fragile creature.

She can feel him trembling beneath her hands. He wants more – he wants everything she can give him – but he holds back, fingers scraping against stone. He grinds his teeth, tongue slipping out to lick his lips periodically as he moves. He is so slow, so gentle. Like she is made of glass.

She is no glass maiden.

Snarling, Éowyn pushes Gríma back onto his knees, awkwardly adjusting as she climbs onto his lap. His mouth falls open in a small gasp of pleasure as she slips onto him once more, her legs wrapping tightly around his waist. He is fully inside her now, buried up to the hilt. “Éowyn – ” he says, voice strangled. “Please – ”

The plea is what does it, igniting the fire in her again. She has power over this man. He wants her, needs her, is begging her for something only she can give him. Grinning fiercely, she moves her hips, vaguely aware that she hardly knows what she is doing. Whatever it is, it must be pleasing, for Gríma moans and thrusts in return, meeting her head-on. When she moves again, faster this time, he joins her, shaking beneath her. He takes a moment to adjust, leaning back against the frame of the bed. Éowyn grips one of the bed’s posts, just behind his head, and uses it as leverage, eyes locked on his face as she moves again, harder, faster. His eyes flutter closed and he arches towards her, bucking beneath her, moaning.

Soon he moves like a man possessed, his mouth upon her throat, thrusting madly to meet her. The friction is incredible. By nature he reaches the same place inside her that his fingers had touched; and it is this spot Éowyn endeavors to tease most, crying out sharply when their bodies meet again and again. Her whole focus is on the growing heat inside her, building and rising in every inch of her.

Sensing her rising torment, Gríma slips a hand between their bodies and toys with her tender flesh, sending her jolting forward, screaming. The slow build she was experiencing becomes a rapidly climbing fire in her veins, rushing through her faster and faster. She trembles against him, spitting curses and pleas in a voice almost impossible to understand, heavy with her pleasure. He thrusts again and again, harder and harder, his voice muddled with his own desperate pleas. He says her name a thousand times, voice rising until it cracks and breaks and heat floods inside her. The sensation is overwhelming, and it breaks her too, sending her to a pinnacle she has never imagined. She coils tightly around him, legs trembling, and screams, a pure, piercing cry; and when her pleasure fades she sags against him, clinging to his neck.

He lays beneath her, panting, and presses a kiss to her throat. “There, sweet princess,” he murmurs, nuzzling her cheek. “There. That is the pleasure you have been denied… that you shall never be denied again.”

It is a pretty thought, and for a moment Éowyn entertains it – she and Gríma sharing a bed, his mouth hot and hungry on hers whenever she asks it. But if they are caught, it will only bring sorrow upon them both; and a few moments of pleasure and reassurance are not worth the damage they might cause, were she to let a night like this occur again.

Instead of replying, she buries her face in his neck, and pretends the dawn will never come.


End file.
